Is there anything funnier than tiny cat pants?
It seems unlikely, but my goal in life is to find out.

Wednesday, November 16, 2005

The Wayward Boy Scout

I've been thinking about Sarcastro's Home for Wayward Girls and it tickles me because I now know, first-hand, that he just knows a lot of wayward people.
Take Exador.
Last night he promised to be a good influence on me--yes, suggesting that I, your kind host--was somehow a bad influence on him. And anyway, it must have worked, because this morning I woke up feeling very sympathetic to God.
Poor God, who's all the time in the Old Testament looking down on folks and saying, "Oh my Self, you idiot mortal have called yourself the wrong thing."
That's how I feel today--that a man has called himself so wrong that I must take the extraordinary step of giving a pseudonym to a pseudonymous internet identity.
Call yourself what you want to, Exador. Around here, you're going to be the Wayward Boy Scout.
How wayward, folks?
Let me illustrate.
Last night the Wayward Boy Scout came back to finish showing me all the cool places in town.
I was exhausted from all the drinking and the sightseeing from the night before, but this is a man you trust can keep a person entertained, so I dragged my sorry ass back out again.
We had pizza and beer, which coupled with the utter exhaustion, went straight to my head.
So, at some point we're sitting in the most awesome strip club ever with all these drugged out alterna-chicks dancing on a platform not three feet from us, and the Wayward Boy Scout is lecturing me--me, who has ever taken zero people to strip clubs to throw dollar bills in people's underwear--about the immorality of government.
I shit you not.
But I don't disagree. Of course the government is immoral. Imposing your will on other adults is always, to some extent, immoral. But my point was, "So what?"
And he attempted to make some kind of argument--in a strip club mind you--about the necessity of fleeing from immorality.
Anyway, I owe the Wayward Boy Scout big time and so I'm going to make him an afghan to show my gratitude.
Though, perhaps, I'll leave the ends loose so that he can practice his knot tying, because it's apparent to me that he needs to brush up on some of the foundational tenets of Scouting.

13 Comments:

My Man from GM is also known as The Chain-Smokin' Altar Boy. Because he is and was one. It always ticks him off when his wife and I call him that, though.

I never thought about taking him to a strip club and lecturing him on morality. He'd probably pass out in the parking lot and then beg me to take him to confession.

I admit that I'm not brave enough to go to a strip club. I would want to rescue the girls and take them to MegaLoMart and buy them comfy sweatpants and socks and cans of beef stew and boxes of low-sodium crackers and then tuck them onto their couches with afghans and lots of money and updated resumes and a list of potential employers and continuing ed classes so they wouldn't have to go back to a strip club and fellate a pole.

I must admit that part of my motivation for pressing the debate on government was that I didn't want to have to make eye contact with the current dancer. I'm a sucker for tipping, but I wanted to save my money for Violet, the excellent show-woman on ecstacy, or Tabby, the stripper with the shaved head.

Tabby was pretty hot, but Violet stole my heart. (It may have been because she was naked.)You haven't lived until you've played basketball where the ball is a crumpled up dollar bill, and the hoop is an oustretched thong. If only B was a better shot!

Unlike you, I'm not made of money. I can't just be tossing dollar bills at cute little girls for shits and giggles.

If I want to see nice round tits and crazy women wiggling them, I have to do with just looking in the mirror.

But fine, next time, if there's a next time, I'll get a lap dance. I was not being wussy, just pragmatic, and trying to be a good influence on you to make up for the salacious insinuendos you made about me earlier.

THE CAST OF CHARACTERS

The Butcher--My youngest brother, who lives with me and works as, you guessed it, a butcher. He knows everyone in town.

The Recalcitrant Brother--Our middle brother, who lives in rural Georgia and has a kind of movie star life, if that movie star is Burt Reynolds in Deliverance.

The Reverend--Our Dad, a Methodist minister, perpetually three years from retirement.

Mom--Our Mom. She doesn't get a funny nickname because our mom will not stand for funny nicknames.

Mrs. Wigglebottom--My dog. She's got terrible manners.

The Corporate Shill--Or The Shill, as we call her. My friend from college who was constantly getting me into trouble and going to parties she neglected to tell me about where cute boys would ask her "Where's Aunt B.?"

The Legal Eagle--The Shill's husband.

The Super Genius--She lived next door to me my freshman year of college and we've been friends ever since my first day on the floor.

Miss J.--My first adult friend, meaning the first lasting friendship I made after college. She was my roommate in grad school.

Her Lover--Her Husband.

The Divine Ms. B.--Miss J.'s sister and one of my heroes, because she's brave and funny and mystic and fearless.

JR--My oldest friend. I've known her since I was in the second grade.

Elias--JR's husband and the person who's musical tastes have most strongly affected my own. Oh, how I long to be cooler than him!

The Professor--My closest friend here in Nashville. She's a genius, but she'll never tell you that.

The Man from GM--I've known him since I was 16 and he still hasn't forgiven me for telling him I was a vegetarian when I wasn't.

The Redheaded Kid--No one knows where he comes from or where he goes when he leaves here. I assume he's the Butcher's friend. The Butcher assumes he's mine.